The chief inspector himself strode through the crowd at the far end of the square. The officers most familiar with him turned at the sound of the handcuffs, jangling at his side, and they were at attention the moment they caught sight of the imposing figure. Even those who must have been from different departments made at least a token effort to sit up straighter on their flower boxes. The inspector made a beeline to stand beside me, surveying the men as he spoke.

“Where is he?”

“He’ll be right back,” I assured the inspector, wishing all the more that I had kept a line of sight on my employer. I shifted my grip on Jackaby’s books, feeling small and awkward beside the chief inspector. The last time we had been this close without Jackaby, he had been accusing me of murder. At least this time he was on our side. “You’ve certainly assembled an impressive crowd, sir. Is this every policeman in New Fiddleham?”

“Of course not,” Marlowe grunted. “Most of the on-duty officers will stay right where they’re assigned. It would be irresponsible to leave New Fiddleham unprotected. There are, however, runners rousing available men from every district in the city. I hope you understand, Miss Rook”—the chief inspector turned his head in my direction, looking down his arrow-straight nose at me—“that I have used the very last of my pull with Commissioner Swift to draw this much manpower. I have taken responsibility for what is becoming a remarkably public spectacle. It is of the utmost importance to me that this not become a colossal waste of time and resources. So where, I will ask you again, is Jackaby?”

“He’s . . . about.” I scanned the square frantically for any sign of that silly knit cap. I recognized a few faces in the crowd. O’Doyle, the barrel-chested brute I had first encountered at the Emerald Arch, was there, along with the two guards who had been given the unfortunate task of searching Jackaby’s building. It appeared those two had at least had enough time to change into fresh uniforms. The portly officer with the walrus mustache was huddled with a few of his colleagues, chatting and rubbing his arms to stay warm.

Toward the back of the crowd, to my surprise, I even spotted Charlie Cane. The poor, tired detective had pulled his uniform back on—if he’d even had time to remove it—but he was clearly in bad shape. His well-polished buttons and pointed shoes still glistened, but his uniform was no longer crisp, and his posture sagged. He kept to the rear, not socializing with his comrades, and kept glancing back down the street, as if longing to return to his bed. I tried to catch his eye to offer a sympathetic smile, but the detective’s head hung low and his gaze was downcast.